WRITER RICARDO LIRA ACUÑA'S BLOG

How Broken-Hearted Found Love

2012-02-14T12:00:00.000-08:00

Broken-hearted for two years after my arrival to LA and several bad dates later, I had already given up on finding someone, that is, until I met Love. She ignored me for about a month after I first met her. Then one night at the Bigfoot Lodge we just clicked, and she wrote her number on the back of a Food for Less receipt. We started going out and seeing each other every chance we got.

A few months into our courtship, she called me up with tickets to a Ricky Martin concert in San Jose. I really wasn’t interested in going, but for the love of her, we drove up to San Francisco, stayed for the weekend, and caught the concert on Sunday evening. Driving back to LA after midnight, I was speeding over 90 on the I-5 to get us back as soon as I could because we both had to work the next day. It had been the perfect weekend.

But it only took a split second, when I thought the car wheels had hit dirt in the island between lanes, for everything to go wrong. I swerved, slammed the brakes, and we spun out and flipped over several times. Time slowed down as glass and dirt flew everywhere, and I put my arm out to protect Love fearing the worst ending. We landed in a ditch by the side of the freeway. My scalp was badly cut, making me look like Stephen King’s bloody Carrie. Miraculously though, Love was unharmed and able to run up to the freeway, inbetween checking up on me to make sure I didn’t go into shock, until she was finally able to flag down a trucker who called 911. I was sewn up at the nearest ER, and we had to spend the night in some hotel in Los Banos because my car was totaled. I told Love right there and then that she could leave me, and there wouldn’t be any hard feelings. We took a Greyhound bus back to LA, and she stuck it out with me. I proposed to her on Valentine’s Day 12 years ago.

Poor Love, don’t know how she puts up with me, but I’m glad she does. I’m still a kid at heart who doesn’t want to grow up. I’m also struggling as a writer, my mind always preoccupied with what I’m writing and not necessarily the daily obligations, responsibilities and chores. But I do know this, my Love brings out the best in me and teaches me to be a better husband, father and person. She inspired many of the poems in my second book of poetry and photography, Greetings from Heaven & Hell, about falling in love and the realities of marriage and growing up. I owe my beautiful children, my life, everything to Love. I love you. Marvilla.

Now on sale as an ebook for only $2.99, Greetings from Heaven & Hell:

http://www.amazon.com/dp/B0066CPY3O

Now on sale as an ebook for only $2.99, under the influence: http://www.amazon.com/dp/B0066AA2Z6

Please share with anyone you know who enjoys poetry and photography. And thank you for your support!

How Charles Bukowski Saved Broken-Hearted

2011-12-20T15:28:00.000-08:00

Were it not for
Charles Bukowski
I wouldn’t be a writer.
My girlfriend of 7 years woke up one morning
and dumped me.
We had met in college
at an overseas exchange program in Paris-
oh la la la la la la la la!
But instead of immersing ourselves in French,
we spent most of the time looking for jazz clubs and museums
and falling in love.
After college we couldn’t find a job to save our lives,
but when we did,
we wanted to be saved from our jobs.
We moved to New York City
where I went to film school.
But we couldn’t afford NYC;
and it was driving me crazy
with anxiety and panic disorder!
She wanted to move near her family and settle down;
I wanted to do the same,
but near my family.
We ended up in Denver(?)
where I proposed to her 3 three times,
and 3 times she thought it best
to save up our money.
In the dead of winter,
I bought a used Honda
Drove for 18 hours on icy roads
and could’ve slipped right off
the Rockies
and wouldn’t have given a damn.
I was broken-hearted.

Without connects or money in the City of Angels,
I took an office job and avoided film production
because they paid nothing
or next to nothing.
I now had humongous student loans to pay back,
in addition to
my car, rent and bills.
One night while speeding home drunk,
I flew my car
over some railroad tracks
and plowed into a parked car.
I woke up
with a sheet over my face
and thought I was
visiting my body.
But a doctor
was stitching my face.
Luckily, no one was in the parked car,
but my Honda was totaled.
I commuted on 2 buses
from where I lived east of East LA
to my job on the Westside.
You’d think I’d enjoy not being stuck
in infamous LA traffic,
but I
was broken-hearted.

One day I happened to walk into
the LA Central Public Library downtown
and happened to browse
through the lit section,
where I came upon
The Days Run Away Like Wild Horses Over the Hills
by Charles Bukowski.
I’d heard of him
through a classmate
who claimed
Bukowski was the greatest writer there ever was.
And there was Bukowski himself,
all that was left of him anyway,
in my hands,
his words.
But man, were they words!
They came alive
and spoke to me,
as clear a voice I ever heard.
Right to the heart.
No pretense.
No bullshit.
As if the man had cut himself open for all to see—
the good, the bad and the ugly.
I had his struggles as a writer and as a person,
But what I wanted most
was his lust for life.
I read his every book.
I wrote my own poems.
Even in the darkest moments
when I felt like leaving LA,
giving up on being a writer
and ever finding someone else to love,
Bukowski was there like a good friend
reminding me to keep going
until the day came
when I wasn’t
broken-
hearted.

NOTE: If you like what you just read, please check out my books of poetry and photography now available as ebooks for the Kindle on Amazon.com.

Here's the link to my 1st book of poetry and photography under the influence: http://www.amazon.com/dp/B0066AA2Z6

Here's the link to my 2nd book of poetry and photography Greetings from Heaven & Hell: http://www.amazon.com/dp/B0066CPY3O

Please share with anyone you know who enjoys poetry and photography. And thank you for your support!

pichin

2011-08-07T23:55:00.000-07:00

i thought you didn't want to come into this world

i don't blame you

i'm still trying to like it myself

against the bloody torrent

inside your mother's vessel you held fast

while we older, wiser guardians

in our hurry and worry thought you dead

you have many miles and years to travel yet

and as many dangers pose still a threat

so have no doubt that life is precious

and that you're a miracle from the beginning

NOTE: I initially wrote this after my wife and I thought we had a miscarriage a few months into the pregnancy. Then we had another miscarriage scare a few months later. To top it off, Pichin was born a 7-month, 3-lb. premie and spent a month in the hospital. We cannot thank our families, friends and the Kaiser NICU at Sunset and Vermont enough for their support during this trying time, and we are also grateful to report that Pichin is doing well and growing into normalcy.

First Roadblock

2010-05-03T11:44:00.000-07:00

I wish I could tell you that I was advancing to the Seminfinals and happily on my way to winning the Amazon Breakthrough Novel Award, but I am not. Disappointed? To say the least. Worst of all, I let you, my readers, down. You who took the time and trouble to read my pages and especially you who wrote such kind praise for my reviews.
Ultimately, I would like to think that I did not advance because of incompatibility between what I wrote and what the the contest was looking for. However, I must assume full responsibility and go back to my writing, and continue to work endlessly and tirelessly until my writing is such that it cannot be denied.
While I am grateful that my novel was a Quarterfinalist its first time out, my aim is true and simple: to write and publish the best first novel that I can. I owe it to myself, and I owe it to you.

Thank you for your overwhelming support. That is reward and motivation enough as I go forward in search of an agent to get the novel published.
Adelante!

The Road to Getting My First Novel Published

2010-03-23T21:00:00.000-07:00

Five years ago, I quit teaching high school English at LAUSD, my father died and I wrote the first draft to my first novel Prodigal Son. At the beginning of this year, I finished my fifth draft and submitted it to the Amazon Breakthrough Novel Award within one hour of the deadline. Based on a 300-word pitch of the novel, 10,000 total entries were boiled down to 1,000 entries in general fiction and 1,000 entries in young adult fiction (Prodigal Son being one of them) at the end of February. As of the end of March, 500 total are now Quarterfinalists based on the first few chapters. Prodigal Son being one of them. 100 Semi-finalists will be announced at the end of this month.

through the eyes of a baby

2008-06-11T04:20:00.000-07:00

So I'm changing my tune already, Frida Maria has turned 4 months old, and I'm not the wiser but I am getting used to it. And now she's observing her environment, looking around with those precious little buttons for eyes that she has. And she making all kinds of talk noises and moving restlessly about her crib. And best of all, she smiles at me and my wife and recognizes us when she wakes up first thing in the morning and whenever we give her the attention she deserves.

She's starting to teeth though, and the drool is pouring and she bites her hands and tries to itch at those gums. And that's when she gets really fussy. But other than that, she's mellow and likes going out, especially to supermarkets with all the bright light and colors from the countless products, and to parties, with all the funny faces and loud noises. If anything, my wife asks: "Is it wrong to think that your baby is just too cute for words?" So among Frida Maria's many nicknames (Baby Jokes, Little Slick, Little Big Cheeks, Cheeky Cheeks, Papa Frita), TCFW is her most recent and most text-friendly.

The worrying doesn't stop of course. My wife had to go back to work for a month and half to close out the school year since she's a teacher. She'll have the summer off which is great for her and Frida Maria. But in the meantime, we had to get a nanny. Still, I'm always worrying about Frida Maria's safety and physical well-being. Did she eat enough? Did she sleep or not? Did she cry a lot? And then I sit in my office cubicle looking at my pictures of Frida Maria wishing I was with her and then I really start worrying about the big monsters under my bed. What will the future hold for Frida Maria? Will the world economies, especially that of the U.S., tumble because of oil prices and scarcities? Will global warming bring humanity more natural disasters and millions of deaths more? Will my poor little girl grow up in a world filled with hunger, death and war at her doorstep? But isn't that the world I was born into myself and still live in? As I've always said, the world has been ending since it started.

I don't want Frida Maria to suffer at all. How can I protect her though? How can I save her? And what about the day we have to separate for whatever reason, or God forbid, because of death? What then? I suppress these thoughts as best I can, focus on the present, on the positive. Live and enjoy the moment. But easier said than done when humanity is sick, when we're all mentally sick and bent on destroying ourselves and everything around us. Can we really turn it around? Or is it too late? And if we can, will we? Day at a time. Moment at a time is the only way to live it seems to keep from going completely mad. To be present, aware of the beautiful world around us as seen through the eyes of a baby.

Baby Blues

2008-03-21T04:20:00.000-07:00

Forget the Peace Corps. The toughest job you’ll ever love is having and raising a child. My wife and I just had our first baby. And at 37, I’m an old fart. Perhaps I should’ve done it when I was younger and more malleable. But it was hard enough finding someone to love who loved me back. The world is full of myths and lies, amongst them is romantic love. As I told my wife, “It’s hard enough to put up with yourself, so why would you want to put up with someone else?”

Another conspiracy is that we must have babies and that babies are so cute and nothing less. Well, if you’re thinking about having of a baby, think twice and think hard because we don’t recommend it. At least not for the first few months.

I’m glad my wife and I waited a couple of years after we got married. That way we got to know each other. If I hesitated about having a baby, it’s because the world is what it is. And what I’m talking about is the fabricated, fucked-up, ego-driven illusion of “civilization” we humans have created. So bringing another being into this insanity should be pause for thought because sometimes I don’t even want to be here. There are those who think they can gain immortality through children. I doubt it. Most hope their children will make the world a better place and not worse. That’s the hope. But in the end, having a baby is probably and simply about instinct and survival.

Pregnancy first. My wife had a relatively good one in that her pain or discomfort was neither extreme nor overwhelming, so I can’t tell you much about that.

Next, labor and delivery. Like everything else in life, you won’t really know what it’s like until you experience it for yourself. Although no substitute for actual experience, education is the only weapon we have against ignorance and the unknown. So read every book you can get your hands on and talk to someone you trust who’s had a baby. Take a lamaze class. Be prepared for anything and everything.

Don’t have a baby through an HMO, unless it’s a damn good one or you got a damn good primary physician. Don’t go to the hospital too early. We did, and we were in labor for 25 hours because they wouldn’t let my wife stand, walk or try any of the labor-inducing positions we were taught in lamaze!

Prepare to give up sleep forever. We were awake 36 hours before getting any sleep. Write up a birthing plan, and make sure they don't smoke it. Have a mid-wife, a doula or someone who knows what they’re doing at your side so the nurses and doctors don’t run you over.

Drugs or drug-free? My wife didn’t want any, but when her contractions slowed down, they gave her pitocin, a drug which my wife likened to having your insides carved out with a knife. The pain was so Nightmare on Elm Street that she gladly followed it up with an epidural.

After full dilation, the pushing is the scariest. They threatened my wife to push the baby out in 3 hours or get a c-section. My wife pushed beyond pushing. She turned colors, had a panic attack, shook uncontrollably and for the first time in her life told me, “I’m scared.”

And you’d think that once the baby is out, it’s over and everybody lives happily ever after. But noooo, they stole our baby away to the NICU with the preemies because my wife had a temperature of 100. Not due to an infection mind you but because (1) the room was stuffy, (2) she was loaded with drugs, and (3) she just pushed a baby out her vagina!

Breastfeeding is painful. it takes a couple of days for the milk to come down, and a woman has to actually learn how to do it properly and so does the baby. It’s all about latching! And it takes a couple of weeks to make it happen, so don't give up.

Bottom line is: HMOs want the quickest, easiest and cheapest way to get you in and out of the hospital while still covering their asses. So make sure you cover yours and that of your family's.

And so you finally get the baby home, and everyone lives happily ever after, right? Guess again. The baby feeds every 2 to 3 hours. There are 8 to 12 diapers to change per day. Babies get bad gas that makes them irritable. If you were born under an unlucky star, your baby will be colicky, cry inconsolably for hours and will keep you up all night.

But the sleep deprivation is nothing compared to the CRYING! You have to swaddle them tight, rock and sooth them to sleep which can take from half an hour to a couple of hours while the baby cries bloody murder in your ear. Rocking chairs, gripe water and swaddlers (not receiving blankets) are lifesavers.

And once you do get them to sleep, all you have to do is try to fit in as many house chores as you can, shit, shower, eat, check your e-mail before your precious miracle wakes up and you start all over again. It’s relentless, non-stop, 25/8, the biggest and baddest rollercoasters of them all! As a parent, you lose sleep, hygiene and your mind. You are literally a zombie sleepwalking through your life.

And that’s just the physical damage. Mentally, I’m all over the place. I now think of every person as being a big baby, and instead of crying, we complain all the time. (Just like I'm doing now.) The whole human race is infantile! So grow up people and evolve dammit! Quit killing each other already, and let's save the planet before it's too late! All I ever do is worry about my baby’s safety and well-being and what the next growth phase will be and how do I keep my patience and sanity for so many years to come and then turn my baby, flesh of my loins, over to the world?!?!

Now don’t get me wrong. Everything I'm crying about is quite normal and average, and I'm very grateful for that. I can't imagine dealing with more than one baby (e.g., twins), any real complications, sickness or heartbreaking anything having to do with a baby. I love my baby girl, and she’s the most beautiful thing in the world to me. And I know that in time, probably sooner than I think, I’ll be singing a different tune, but for now, I got the baby blues.

Yeah, I've been to the Oscars...

2007-02-26T14:35:00.000-08:00

I attended the Oscars 5 years ago with my friend Big Red. He was working for the Academy back then and had an extra ticket because his wife was going to be out town. We arrived around 3:30 P.M., spiffy in our tuxes. But before I even stepped onto the red carpet, they took my binoculars away at the security checkpoint. It was the first Academy award show after 911, and they had sharpshooters on the rooftops. I was just hoping Mexicans weren't considered terrorists, and I was too in awe of the event to really be scared. We saw Ridley Scott and Hugh Jackman in front of us as we made our way down the magic carpet covering Hollywood Boulevard, camera flashes going off and fans shouting from the stands. We pretended to be somebody and waved back.

Once in the Kodak Theater, we made our way to the top floor where complimentary martinis were being dispensed. I'm a beer man myself, but won't turn down a free drink, whatever it is. So we started in on them martinis, and before I knew it, I was shaking hands with legendary Ernest Borgnine, then David Lynch, and all I could say was, "I'm a big fan of yours."

A few martinis later, we had a great buzz going, and the show was about to begin. We found our nosebleed seats, and Whoopi Goldberg down onstage was the size of a protein strand floating in front of my iris. We couldn't see shit, so Red suggested we go downstairs to the bar. It was like that vulgarized Ed Hopper painting where Elvis, James Dean, Bogart and Marilyn Monroe are hanging out at an all-night diner. Tobey Mcguire was seated at the bar looking sedated with a blank expression on his face. I didn't bother him. Instead, I ordered a rum and coke, needed the caffeine. Met Denzel Washington while I was at it, firm handshake, looked you in the eye. Met Nicole Kidman, gracious, petite, but skin so white it was translucent. Met Ethan Hawke and Uma Thurman, back when they were still together. She was the most down-to-earth and beautiful to behold in person. Then there was Sir Paul McCartney, flanked by security of course. A Beatles fan for life, I approached with a dumb, star-struck smile, wishing I had an autograph book with me, or pen and paper, or just a pen, he could sign my shirt or hand, who cared, it was Paul fucking McCartney! But just as I shyly opened my mouth to utter something, he was quickly escorted back into the theater. Was I too drunk? Too Mexican perhaps? Hell, you can never be too Mexican!

I got another drink, saw Julia Roberts sitting at a side table on her cell phone. I made a beeline for her, and a block of a bodyguard who would eclipse the sun stepped out in front of her,

"I just want to say hello to Ms. Roberts," I said with drunken confidence.

He turned to her and whispered in her ear. She didn't even look at me.

"Give her a minute," he said and stood there with arms crossed.

Fine, I thought to myself. Whatevers. But I stared at my watch and exactly a minute later, I stepped up to the guard and said, "It's been a minute."

He turned and whispered to her again. "Okay," he said and stepped aside.

"Ms. Roberts, I'm a big fan of yours, and I just wanted to say hello. I'm Ricardo Acuña, a writer. And someday, God willing, I'll be here to collect an Oscar too."

She gave me the once over and held her hand out. I shook it. That limp, cold, bony hand of hers. She turned back to her cell phone, and that was that.

I had to take a piss and as I tried to balance before the urinal so as not to pee on myself, I knew the time had come. I was way too fucked up to be approaching celebrities or anybody for that reason. I told Red who was equally drunk that I was taking a cab home. (He later told me that he went into the bathroom double-fisted with drinks and broke one of them in the sink and that Will Smith told him, "Looks like you need some help there buddy.") I grabbed a potted plant on my way out of the Kodak Theater as a souvenir. I somehow managed to give the cabbie my address, and when we arrived, I realized I didn't have any cash on me. I had him wait outside while I stumbled in and told love, "Pay the man. And this is for you." I handed her the potted plant and passed out on the bed, tux and all.